


In Good Hands

by aphilologicalbatman



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Awkward Romantic Gestures, Bad Poetry, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphilologicalbatman/pseuds/aphilologicalbatman
Summary: Geralt requests a massage. Jaskier sings. Chamomile is rubbed on bottoms.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 34
Kudos: 308
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Id Pro Quo 2020





	In Good Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NekoMida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoMida/gifts).



> All my love and thanks to the friends who listened to me scream about this, who betaed this, and who answered my video game questions. All lack of lyrical genius on display in this work is my own.

“I could help,” Jaskier says, lolling on the bed. He’s companionably naked, still warm and damp from the bath. Geralt can hardly bear to look at him, at the stray wet curl plastered to his forehead, the beads of water clinging to his lashes.

“You could help,” Geralt says, stopping in the middle of trying to rub liniment into his own back.

“I have hands,” Jaskier says, flexing them conspicuously at Geralt. His fingers are long and pale. He smells, even across the room, faintly like the inn’s lemony soap. He most certainly has hands.

Geralt crosses to him and passes him the little tub of chamomile ointment. Jaskier takes it and does a fiddly little trick with it that involves tossing it in the air and catching it again. He has very good hands. Jaskier dips two fingers in and brings out an overgenerous dollop of oily salve. He sniffs it. Geralt can’t imagine needing to bring something so potent to his nose to smell it better.

While Jaskier is exploring the liniment, Geralt climbs onto the bed and spreads himself unceremoniously over it, legs dangling over the side of the bed, face buried in the musty blankets.

“Um,” Jaskier says.

“You said you wanted to help.”

The bed shifts, and Jaskier is a heavy, solid presence over Geralt’s hips. “What do they _feed_ you in Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier says. “I mean, honestly, you are just— this is absurd. How are you this wide? People aren’t supposed to be this size. You’re only a touch taller than me, and I have ridden horses narrower than you are.”

Geralt says nothing because the easiest way to get Jaskier to shut up is to not engage. It doesn’t have a particularly high success rate, but unlike every other tactic, it has a success rate. Also, Jaskier’s hands are spreading tingly grease across his back, and it’s taking the edge off of the feeling of thrown-onto-a-rocky-plinth-from-on-high. At least, Jaskier is making himself useful for once.

“Your entire back is like a _rock_! You know, I’ve given my fair share of massages in my day, and I have to say, I’ve never met anyone with a back as bad as yours,” Jaskier says, but he’s found that one really tight spot under Geralt’s shoulder blade, and he digs his thumbs into it, and Geralt groans, long and low, into the blanket. Jaskier— stops. “Um.”

Geralt waits. And he waits. “Jaskier?”

“Oh, ah, well—”

“If you mostly massage countesses’ feet, I’m not sure it’s much of a comparison.”

“Not just their feet,” Jaskier says automatically as he leans into the knots in Geralt’s back once more.

“Hm,” Geralt says.

“Various parts, really,” Jaskier says. “I mean, you know how it goes—” Geralt can practically hear Jaskier's eyebrows waggling.

“Leave my cunt well enough alone.”

Jaskier pauses for a moment and then says, “Yes, well,” and actually goes quiet for nearly an entire minute as he works on Geralt’s lats. It’s bliss, both the silence and the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on his back. Good hands. Strong from strumming that stupid lute of his. Probably make a hell of an archer if he ever put his mind to it. Jaskier pushes hard into a particularly stubborn spot, and Geralt hisses in pain as the muscle finally gives in and releases, but then Jaskier is stroking his hair and _hushing_ him. Geralt knows he should tell Jaskier to stop, should tell him to fuck off, should say something.

He doesn’t, though.

Instead, Jaskier says, “You all right?”, and Geralt just answers with an affirmative grunt.

Jaskier’s hands are dipping down toward the small of Geralt’s back when he says, “Yes, well, um. Did I ever tell you about the time the Countess de Stael invited me to her country cottage with two of her bosom buddies?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, “you did.”

“Oh. What about the boat race in Oxenfurt—”

“Yes.”

“The dunking of the village doctor in the pond?”

“ _Yes_.”

“I could sing you something,” Jaskier says with a cheerful hopelessness. “ _When the young bard found/his Witcher in great pain/all his muscles bound_ —”

“No.”

“Really? I think people would like to know about your softer side.”

“Hm.”

“You have too got a softer side,” Jaskier says. “I know you, you old fart. Don’t you forget it.”

“How could I? You’ve written so many fucking songs about me.”

“You’re not all murdering monsters. Sometimes, you—”

“Murder humans?”

“Geralt!”

“Hm.”

Jaskier digs his fingers cruelly into the base of Geralt’s spine. “ _‘Oh, goodness, dear Witcher,’/the lovely whore screamed,/‘you really know how to—_ erm _, itch ‘er!/that tender spot so—_ ”

“Stop.”

“What, too much realism?” Jaskier stops singing. He also stops touching Geralt’s back, which is disappointing to say the least. He scrambles off Geralt and smacks his arse lightly. “All right, I think that’s quite enough.”

Jaskier sits primly on the side of the bed, smiling at him. Geralt levers himself up and glares at the man, who is offering him the little tub of liniment back. Geralt doesn’t take it. Instead, he drapes himself over Jaskier’s lap, planting his face in the pillow.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes out. “I thought— your back?”

“Not the only part of me that could use a little care.”

At first, Jaskier’s hands are soft against Geralt’s arse, a tentative pet, and then Jaskier kneads his fingers into the sore spots at the base of Geralt’s back, rubbing little circles. “Is that okay?” Geralt makes a noise into the coverlet, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, and feels himself start to harden where he’s pressed against Jaskier’s thighs. He hears the hitch in Jaskier’s breath, but the other man covers admirably, hands never stilling. Above him, Jaskier is babbling, a never-ending stream of meaningless words.

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier yanks his hands back like he’s been caught stealing sweets.

“Less talking.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Right. Um. Your back.” Jaskier sets one hand in the middle of Geralt’s back, starting to press a thumb into a knot of muscle.

“That part of my back is fine,” Geralt says. “A bit lower?”

Jaskier cups the meat of Geralt’s arse and squeezes. “Here?” Geralt gives a little sigh. Jaskier goes back to massaging, teetering between plausible and implausible deniability until one of his greased thumbs slips from where it is pretending to work out a knot and presses firm against Geralt’s taint. Geralt lets out an embarrassing noise and instinctively bucks his hips.

“Fuck, that _is_ what you wanted,” Jaskier says. “Oh, thank Melitele, I thought you were just— I don’t know. Your back hurt, and you haven’t experienced human civilization in half a century, and oh, fuck, your _arse_ , Geralt, it’s a thing of beauty.”

And then Geralt doesn’t have to listen to Jaskier anymore because he is slowly sinking a finger into him and it is taking all of Geralt’s concentration not to make more noises, louder and probably more shameful than before. Jaskier is repeating his name, a breathy clamor.

Geralt pulls his wits together and says, “More.”

Jaskier says, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” and shoves a second finger into him. The remaining tension melts out of Geralt as Jaskier slowly pumps his fingers in and out. His skin tingles a little. Jaskier's thumb rests against Geralt’s taint like a promise of things to come. “You like this?”

Sometimes, it is easier not to lie, so Geralt says: “Yes.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, voice faint.

Geralt half-turns, craning around to see what’s wrong. Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed, but he’s smiling. He’s watching his fingers. He looks mesmerized.

Then, he must notice Geralt looking at him because he meets Geralt’s eyes and says, “Aren’t you lovely?”, in a syrupy-sweet tone that belies the predatory look on his face. He presses on the spot right behind Geralt’s balls, and Geralt makes a noise like a dying beast, burying his face in the pillow.

Jaskier says, “They’ll hear you,” more boast than warning.

When Geralt doesn’t answer, doesn’t make a peep, Jaskier presses a third finger into him. It punches a little surprised groan out of Geralt, but otherwise, he does his best to stay quiet. Jaskier huffs distantly above him and then crooks his fingers purposefully.

“Fuck!”

“Too much?”

“Been a while. I’d— forgotten.”

Jaskier’s fingers still inside him, just a whisper of pressure. “How long?”

“Hm?”

“How long has it been, Geralt?”

“Since I fucked? About five days, seven drowners, and a siren,” Geralt snaps.

Jaskier pulls his fingers out.

The noise Geralt makes is humiliating to say the least, but more so because he is about to have to admit— “Before you were born.”

Jaskier snorts. His fingers trace Geralt’s rim, teasing.

Geralt forces himself to admit, “I don’t like to.”

Jaskier laughs at him, incredulous. “Geralt, the really _very_ impressive evidence of how much you like getting fucked is pressed against my thighs.”

Geralt sighs, props himself up enough so that he can be heard properly, and says, “That’s not what I meant.”

“What exactly,” Jaskier says, voice like a knife, “did you mean?”

Geralt suddenly has the feeling that there is a right answer and a wrong answer, but the question he needs to answer is not actually the one he is being asked. “It’s different from fucking a whore. The coin is less, but it— can be expensive in other ways.”

“Wouldn’t want some bard singing about how he plowed your field like an ox?”

“Jaskier—”

“Maybe, you should’ve chosen someone who doesn’t make a living proclaiming their exploits hither and yon? _He screamed like a cat/when I fucked him,/my cock like a wood bat,/tugging on his rim_!”

“You didn’t.”

“What?”

“You didn’t fuck me,” Geralt says. “Don’t write a song about something that didn’t happen.”

“Always so critical about the details.” Jaskier sighs. “Should I?”

Geralt snorts. “Well, are you planning to kill me halfway through?”

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

Geralt turns and looks at him.

“Oh.” Jaskier touches Geralt’s cheek, running his thumb along the cheekbone. Geralt shuts his eyes. It’s easier not to see Jaskier’s pity. “You could kill me naked. I could be actually inside of you, balls deep, thrusting away, and you could just— pop my head off with your meaty thighs. You’d kill me, and my ghost would come back and thank you politely for it because it would still be easily the most thrilling sex of my entire fucking life.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Oh.”

“Wouldn’t be here if I were.”

“Oh. Well, then. I see,” Jaskier says, a little thready.

“Yes.”

“Geralt, could you very possibly see your way to rolling over onto your back?”

Geralt grunts inquisitively.

“For the fucking, you turd.”

“And here I thought you were a romantic,” Geralt says, flipping over onto his back.

“I _am_ ,” Jaskier says, “my little sweetmeat. I absolutely am.”

“Jaskier.”

“My darling porkpie?”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“My beloved pastry puff?”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier says, “spread your legs.”

Geralt does. Jaskier bites his lip and _looks_. “You’re staring,” Geralt says, impatient.

“I’m allowed.”

“Hm.” Geralt drops his head back onto the pillow because Jaskier is clearly going to take his bloody time about it. “Just let me know when you’re finished.”

“I may be some time,” Jaskier says. He runs his palms over Geralt’s chest. His fingers pause on the newest scars, the ones he probably hasn’t seen before. Jaskier sighs dramatically. He circles Geralt’s nipples, and Geralt does his best not to squirm. Finally, Jaskier says, “You’re impossible.” Not exasperated. Not angry. Fond. A little in awe.

Geralt doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. Jaskier bends one of Geralt’s legs back, and Geralt hooks a hand under his own knee, exposing himself. He stares up at the wooden beams in the ceiling. Jaskier gives a familiar little groan, one Geralt knows all too well from his own over-keen hearing: the one Jaskier makes when he touches himself. He can feel the head of Jaskier’s cock against him, warm and foreign, and Jaskier says, “Geralt,” and Geralt looks up just in time to watch Jaskier’s face as he pushes in. He bites his lower lip and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

“You all right?” Geralt says.

“Just dandy.”

“Been a while?”

“Actually, I’ve never fucked Geralt of Rivia before,” Jaskier says. “Give me a fucking moment.”

Geralt does, or at least he considers doing it, but instead he just wraps his leg around Jaskier’s back and tugs him forward with a grunt. Jaskier says, “Shit,” and drapes Geralt’s leg over his shoulder and thrusts home. It punches a moan out of Geralt before he realizes, and Jaskier says, “Good, that’s good,” and “Oh, fuck,” and a hundred other stupid, meaningless things. His cock burns where it’s buried inside of Geralt, and each thrust is a little too much, a little too deep. Jaskier has good rhythm. Geralt supposes that only makes sense.

Jaskier leans forward and runs his thumb over the seam of Geralt’s lips before sliding it into his mouth. Geralt sucks lazily on it, tasting the faint pepperiness of Jaskier’s skin. He nips at the pad with his teeth, and Jaskier whines, his thrusts stuttering. Then, Jaskier does something Geralt does not expect at all.

Jaskier kisses him.

It’s an open-mouthed devouring kiss that feels very familiar to Geralt, only he isn’t usually on this end of it. Jaskier shoves his tongue into Geralt’s mouth like having Geralt full of his cock isn’t enough, which, well— maybe it isn’t. Jaskier is rocking his hips in shallow little strokes. not willing to pull away from Geralt’s mouth, but he slides his hand between them to make up for it, stroking Geralt off. Geralt’s skin is humming with it, so close, the push–pull of it. Geralt says, “Harder.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, “If I fuck you harder, I will come.”

Geralt says, “Please.”

And Jaskier says, “Fuck, I—” and spreads Geralt’s thighs a little further, so he can pound into Geralt, too much, too fast, his nerves skittering with it. Jaskier says, “I swear, if you don’t let me come inside you, I will absolutely scream,” and Geralt comes hard and fast, striping his stomach. Jaskier makes an inhuman noise and shoves their mouths together. Jaskier’s hips stutter, and Geralt grips his shoulders and holds him there in a rough facsimile of a kiss as Jaskier falls apart.

Afterward, Jaskier buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck and kisses him there. Very softly. Geralt has certain expectations of what happens after he gets fucked, but this is Jaskier, who lives to defy Geralt. He lets Jaskier stay there inside him, on top of him, sweaty and sticky.

Eventually, Geralt says, “Get up.”

“No,” Jaskier says, mouth muffled against Geralt’s skin. “I’m savoring the moment.”

Geralt snorts. “Savor it after you bring me a fucking washcloth.”

“Ugh,” Jaskier says. He says it again when he pulls out and when he rolls off Geralt and when he gets up. He says it when he dips a washcloth into the cold basin of water and wipes off his own stomach and his soft cock. He putters over and plops himself down on the bed next to Geralt.

Geralt, who hasn’t moved an inch, raises an eyebrow. Jaskier cleans up Geralt with gentle, efficient movements. He murmurs apologies for the cold, the sensitivity, the soreness. When Jaskier is finished, he just drops the washcloth on the floor. Then, he coughs.

“What?”

“Should I, um, fuck right off, then?” Jaskier gestures at the other narrow bed.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Come here.”

Jaskier beams, squirreling himself up against Geralt’s side and kissing his cheek. “Was it good for you?”

“Yes.”

“Best you’ve had in my lifetime?”

Geralt snorts. “Yes. For several reasons.”

“Which are…?”

“Jaskier, do you want me to compose a ballad to your cock?”

Without hesitation, Jaskier says, “Yes.”

“ _When the bard’s stingy prick,/Barely tickles your bottom,/It’s so slender and slick,/You won’t know that you’ve caught ‘im_.”

“Well, I’ll tell you now that I don’t think you’re a musical talent.”

“No?”

“No. I wouldn’t take you on as a pupil.”

“Well, at least my pie doesn’t lack for filling.”

Jaskier gives a tiny, furious moan. “Shut up and go to sleep, or I will see that it doesn’t.”

Geralt says, “Be careful, or I’ll hold you to that,” and kisses him, light and quick, just in case it’s the last time. Jaskier cups the back of Geralt’s head, holding him there, and Geralt can feel him smiling against his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/philologicalbat) where I post sporadically at best. If you want to talk to me, stand on your roof at midnight and shine the Philological Bat Signal into the night sky.


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